CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH DICKIE TRIES TO RIDE AWAY FROM HIS OWN SHADOW, WITH
SUCH SUCCESS AS MIGHT HAVE BEEN ANTICIPATED

THAT same morning Richard was up and out early. Fog had followed on
the evening’s rain, and at sunrise still shrouded all the landscape.

“Let her ladyship know I breakfast at the stables and shan’t be in before
luncheon,” he had said to Powell while settling himself in the saddle. Then,
followed by a groom, he fared forth. The house vanished phantom‐like behind
him, and the clang of the iron gates as they swung to was muffled by the
heavy atmosphere, while he rode on by invisible ways across an invisible
land, hemmed in, close‐encompassed, pressed upon, by the chill, ashen
whiteness of the fog.

And for the cold silence and blankness surrounding him Richard was grateful.
It was restful—after a grim fashion—and he welcomed rest, having passed a
but restless night. For Dickie had been the victim of much travail of
spirit. His imagination vexed him, pricking up slumbering lusts of the
flesh. His conscience vexed him likewise, suggesting that his attitude had
not been pure cousinly; and this shamed him, since he was still singularly
unspotted from the world, noble modesties and decencies still paramount in
him. He was keenly, some
page: 211 might say
mawkishly, sensible of the stain and dishonour of casting, even
involuntarily and passingly, covetous glances upon another man’s goods. In
sensation and apprehension he had lived at racing pace during the last few
days. That hour in the Long Gallery last night had been the climax. The
gates of paradise had opened before him. And, since opposites of necessity
imply their opposites, the gates of hell had opened likewise. It appeared to
Dickie that the great poets, and painters, and musicians, the great lovers
even, had nothing left to tell him—for he knew. Knew, moreover, that his
Eden had come to him with the angel of the fiery sword that “turneth every
way” standing at the threshold of it—knew, yet further, as he had never
known before, the immensity of the difficulties, disabilities, humiliations,
imposed on him by his deformity. Bitterly, nakedly, he called his trouble by
that offensive name. Then he straightened himself in the saddle. Yes,
welcome the cold weight against his chest, welcome the silence, the
blankness, the dead, ashen pallor of the fog!

But just where the tan ride, leading down across the road to the left,
diverges from the main road, this source of negative consolation began to
fail him. For a draw of fresher air came from westward, causing the blurred,
wet branches to quiver and the pall of mist to gather, and then break and
melt under its wholesome breath, while the rays of the laggard sun, clearing
the edge of the fir forest, eastward, pierced it, hastening its dissolution.
Therefore it followed that by the time Richard rode in under the stable
archway, he found the great yard full of noise and confused movement. The
stable doors stood wide along one side of the quadrangle. Stunted, boyish
figures shambled hither and thither, unwillingly deserting the remnants of
half‐eaten breakfasts, among the iron mugs and platters of the long, deal
tables of the refectory. Chifney and Preiston—the head‐lad—hurried them,
shouting orders, admonishing, inciting to greater rapidity of action. And
the boys were sulky. The thick morning had promoted hopes of an hour or two
of unwonted idleness. Now those poor, little hopes were summarily blighted.
Lazy, pinched with cold by the raw morning air, still a bit hungry, sick
even, or downright frightened, they must mount and away—the long line of
racehorses streaming, in single file, up the hillside to the exercising
ground—with as short delay as possible, or Mr. Chifney and his ash stick
would know the reason why.

There were elements of brutality in the scene from which Richard would,
oftentimes, have recoiled. To‐day he was
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selfish, absorbed to the point of callousness. If he remarked them at all,
it was in bitter welcome, as he had welcomed the chill and staring blankness
of the fog. He was indifferent to the fact that Chifney was harsh, the
horses testy or wicked, that the boys’ noses were red, and that they blew
their purple fingers before laying hold of the reins in a vain attempt to
promote circulation. Dickie sat still as a statue in the midst of all the
turmoil, the handle of his crop resting on his thigh, his eyes hot from
sleeplessness and wild thoughts, his face hard as marble.—Unhappy? Wasn’t he
unhappy too? Suffer? Well, let them suffer—within reasonable limits.
Suffering was the fundamental law of existence. They must bow to the
workings of it along with the rest.

But one wretched, little chap fairly blubbered. He had been kicked in the
stomach some three weeks earlier, and had been in hospital. This was his
first morning out. He had grown soft, and was light‐headed, his knees all of
a shake. By means of voluminous threats Preiston got him up. But he sat his
horse all of a huddle, as limp as a half‐empty sack of chaff. Richard looked
on feeling, not pity, but only irritation, finally amounting to anger. The
child’s whole aspect and the snivelling sounds he made were so hatefully
ugly. It disgusted him.

“Here, Chifney, leave that fellow at home,” he said. “He’s no good.”

“He’s malingering, Sir Richard. I know his sort. Give in to him now and we
shall have the same game, and worse, over again to‐morrow.”

“Very probably,” Richard answered. “Only it is evident he has no more hand
and no more grip than a sick cat to‐day. We shall have some mess with him,
and I’m not in the humour for a mess, so just leave him. There, boy, stop
crying. Do you hear?” he added, wheeling round on the small unfortunate.
“Mr. Chifney’ll give you another day off and the doctor will see you. Only
if he reports you fit and you give the very least trouble to‐morrow, you’ll
be turned out of the stables there and then. We’ve no use for shirkers. Do
you understand?”

In spite of his irritation, the hardness of Richard’s expression relaxed as
he finished speaking. The poor, little beggar was so abject—too abject
indeed for common decency, since he too, after all, was human. Richard’s own
self‐respect made it incumbent upon him to lift the creature out of the pit
of so absolutely unseemly a degradation. He looked kindly at him, smiled,
and promptly forgot all about him. While to the boy it seemed that the gods
had verily descended in the likeness of
page: 213
men, and he would have bartered his little, dirty, blear‐eyed rudiment of a
soul thenceforward for another such a look from Richard Calmady.

Dickie promptly forgot the boy, yet some virtue must have been in the episode
for he began to feel better in himself. As the horses filed away through the
misty sunshine—Preiston riding beside the fourth or fifth of the string,
while Richard and Chifney brought up the rear, his chestnut suiting its
paces to the shorter stride of the trainer’s cob—the fever of the night
cooled down in him. Half thankfully, half amusedly, he perceived things
begin to assume their normal relations. He filled his lungs with the pure
air, felt the sun‐dazzle pleasant in his eyes.He had run somewhat mad in the
last twenty‐four hours surely? He was not such a fatuous ass as to have
mistaken Helen’s frank camaraderie, her
bright interest in things, her charming little ways of showing cousinly
regard, for some deeper, more personal feeling? She had been divinely kind,
but that was just her—just the outcome of her delightful nature. She wouldgo
away on Friday—Saturday perhaps—he rather hoped Saturday—and be just as
divinely kind to other people. And then he shook himself, feeling the
languid weight of her hands on his shoulders again. Would she—would—? For an
instant he wanted to get at, and incontinently brain, those other people.
After which, Richard mentally took himself by the throat and proceeded to
choke the folly out of himself.—Yes, she would go back to all those other
people, back moreover to the Vicomte de Vallorbes—whom, by the way, it
occurred to him she so seldom mentioned. Well, we don’t continually talk
about the people we love best, do we, to comparative strangers? She would go
back to her husband—her husband.—Richard repeated the words over to himself
sternly, trying to drive them home, to burn them into his consciousness past
all possibility of forgetting.

Anyhow she had been wonderfully sweet and charming to him. She had shown
him—quite unconsciously, of course—what life might be for—for somebody else.
She had revealed to him—what indeed had she not revealed! He remembered the
spirit of expectation that possessed him riding back through the autumn
woods the day he first met her. The expectation had been more than justified
by the sequel. Only—only—and then Dick became stern with himself again. For,
she having, unconsciously, done so much for him, was it not his first duty
never to distress her?—never to let her know how much deeper it had all gone
with him than with her?—never to insult her
page: 214 beautiful innocence by a word or look suggesting an affection less frank
and cousinly than her own?

Only, since even our strongest purposes have moments of lapse and weakness in
execution, it would be safer, perhaps, not to be much alone with her—since
she didn’t know—how should she? Yes, Richard agreed with himself not to
loaf, to allow no idle hours. He would ride, he would see to business. There
were a whole heap of estate matters claiming attention. He had neglected
them shamefully of late. Unquestionably Helen counted for very much, would
continue to do so. He supposed he would carry the ache of certain memories
about with him henceforth and forever. She had become part of the very fibre
of his life. He never doubted that. And yet, he told himself,—assuming a
second‐hand garment of slightly cynical philosophy which suited singularly
ill with the love‐light in his eyes, there radiantly apparent for all the
world to see,—that woman, even the one who first shows you you have a heart,
and a body too, worse luck, even she is but a drop in the vast ocean of
things. There remains all The Rest. And with praiseworthy diligence Dickie
set himself to reckon how immensely much all The Rest amounts to. There is
plenty, exclusive of her, to think about. More than enough, indeed, to keep
one hard at work all day, and send one to bed honestly tired, to
sleeping‐point, at night. Politics for instance, science, literature,
entertaining little controversial rows of sorts—the simple, almost
patriarchal, duties of a great land‐owner; pleasant hobbies such as the
collection of first editions, or a pretty taste in the binding of favourite
books—the observation of this mysterious, ever young, ever fertile nature
around him now, immutable order underlaying ceaseless change, the ever new
wonder and beauty of all that, and:—“I say, Chifney, isn’t the brown
Lady‐Love filly going rather short on the off foreleg? Anything wrong with
her shoulder?”—and sport. Yes, thank God, in the name of everything healthy
and virile, sport and, above all, horses—yes, horses.

Thus did Richard Calmady reason with, and essay to solace, himself for the
fact that some fruits are forbidden to him who holds honour dear. Reasoned
with and solaced himself to such good purpose, as he fondly imagined, that
when, an hour and a half later, he established himself in the trainer’s
dining‐room, a mighty breakfast outspread before him, he felt quite another
man. Racing cups adorned the chimneypiece and sideboard, portraits of
racehorses and jockeys adorned the walls. The sun streamed in between the
red rep curtains, causing the pot‐plants
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in the window to give off a pleasant scent, and the canary, in his swinging,
blue and white painted, cage above them, to sing. Mrs. Chifney, her cheeks
pink, her manner slightly fluttered,—as were her lilac cap strings,—presided
over the silver tea and coffee service, admonished the staid and bulky
tom‐cat who, jumping on the arm of Dickie’s chair, extended a scooping
tentative paw towards his plate, and issued gentle though peremptory orders
to her husband regarding the material needs of her guest. To Mrs. Chifney
such entertainings as the present marked the red‐letter days of her
calendar. Temporarily she forgave Chifney the doubtful nature of his
calling, and his occasional outbreaks of profane swearing likewise. She
ceased to regret that snug, might‐have‐been, little, grocery business in a
country town. She forgot even to hanker after prayer‐meetings, anniversary
teas, and other mild, soul‐saving dissipations unauthorised by the Church of
England. She ruffled her feathers, so to speak, and cooed to the young man
half in feudal, half in unsatisfied maternal affection—for Mrs. Chifney was
childless. And it followed that as he teased her a little, going back
banteringly on certain accepted subjects of difference between them,
praised, and made a hole in, her fresh‐baked rolls, her nicely browned,
fried potatoes, her clear, crinkled rashers, assuring her it gave one an
appetite merely to sit down in a room so shiningly clean and spick and span,
she was supremely happy. And Dickie was happy too, and blessed the exercise,
the food, and the society of these simple persons, which, after his evil
night, seemed to have restored to him his wiser and better self.

“He always was the noblest looking young gentleman I ever saw,” Mrs. Chifney
remarked subsequently to her husband. “But here at breakfast this morning,
when he said, ‘If you won’t be shocked, Mrs. Chifney, I believe I could
manage a second helping of that game pie,’ his face was like a very angel’s
from heaven. Unearthly beautiful, Thomas, and yet a sort of pain at the back
of it. It gave me a regular turn. I had to shed a few tears afterwards when
I got alone by myself.”

“You’re one of those that see more than’s there, half your time, Maria,” the
trainer answered, with an unusual effort at sarcasm, for he was not wholly
easy about the young man himself.—“There’s something up with him, and danged
if I know what it is.” But these reflections he kept to himself.

Dr. Knott, later that same day, made reflections of a similar nature. For
though Dickie adhered valiantly to his good
page: 216 resolutions—going out with the second lot of horses between ten and
eleven o’clock, riding on to Banister’s farm to inspect the new barn and
cowsheds in course of erection, then hurrying down to Sandyfield Street and
listening to long and heated arguments regarding a right‐of‐way reported to
exist across the meadows skirting the river just above the bridge, a right
strongly denied by the present occupier,—notwithstanding these improving and
public‐spirited employments, the love‐light grew in his eyes all through the
long morning, causing his appearance to have something, if not actually
angelic, yet singularly engaging, about it. For, unquestionably, next to a
fortunate attachment, an unfortunate one, if honest, is among the most
inspiring and grace‐begetting of possessions granted to mortals.—Helen must
never know—that was well understood. Yet the more Dickie thought the whole
affair over, the more he recognised the fine romance of thus cherishing a
silent and secret devotion. He was very young in this line as yet, it maybe
observed. Meanwhile it was nearly two o’clock. He would need to ride home
sharply if he was to be in time for luncheon. And at luncheon he would meet
her. And remembering that, his heart—traitorous heart—beat quick, and his
lips—traitorous lips—began to repeat her name. Thus do the gods of life and
death love to play chuck‐farthing with the wise purposes of men, the theory
of the eternal laughter having a root of truth in it, as it would seem,
after all! And there ahead of him, under the shifting, dappled shadow of the
over‐arching firs, Dr. Knott’s broad, cumbersome back, and high, two‐wheeled
trap, blocked the road, while Timothy, the old groom,—stiff‐kneed now and
none too active,—slowly pushed open the heavy, white gate of the inner
park.

As Richard rode up, the doctor turned in his seat and looked at him from
under his rough eyebrows, while his loose lips worked into a half‐ironical
smile. He loved this lad of great fortune, and great misfortune, more
tenderly than he quite cared to own. Then, as Dick checked his horse beside
the cart, he growled out:—

“No need to make anxious inquiries regarding your health, young sir. What
have you been doing with yourself, eh? You look as fit as a fiddle and as
fresh as paint.”

“If I look as I feel I must look ravenously hungry,”Richard answered,
flushing up a little. “I’ve been out since six.”

“Had some breakfast?”

“Oh dear, yes! Enough to teach one to know what
page: 217 a jolly thing a good meal is, and make one wish
for another.”

“Bless me, everything’s beer and skittles with you just at present then!”

Richard looked away down the smooth yellow road whereon the dappled shadows
kissed and mingled, mingled and kissed, and his heart cried “Helen, Helen,”
once again.

“Oh! I don’t know about that,” he said. “I get my share as well as the rest I
suppose—at least—anyway the horses are doing capitally this season.”

“I should like to have a look at them.”

“Oh, well you’ve only got to say when, you know. I shall be only too
delighted to show them you.”

As he walked the trap through the gateway, Dr. Knott watched Richard riding
alongside.—“What’s up with the boy,” he thought. “His face is as keen as a
knife, and as soft as—God help us, I hope there’s no sweethearting on hand!
It’s bound to come sooner or later, but the later the better, for it’ll be a
risky enough set out, come when it may.—Ah, look out there now, you old
fool,”—this to Timothy,—“don’t go missing the step and laying yourself up
with broken ribs for another three months, just when my work’s at its
heaviest. Be careful, can’t you?”

“But why not come in to luncheon now?” Richard said, wisdom whipping up good
resolutions once more, and bidding him check the gladness that gained on him
at thought of that approaching meeting. Oh yes! he would be discreet, he
would erect barriers, he would flee temptation. Knott’s presence offered a
finely rugged barrier, surely. Therefore, he repeated:‐“Come in now. My
mother will be delighted to see you, and we can have a look round the
stables afterwards.”

“I’ll come fast enough if Lady Calmady will take me as I am. Work‐a‐day
clothes, and second best lot at that. You’re alone, I suppose?”

He watched the young man as he spoke. Noted the lift of his chin, and the
slightly studied indifference of his manner.

“No, for once we’re not. But that doesn’t matter. My uncle William Ormiston
is with us. You remember him?”

“I remember his wife.”

“Oh! she’s not here,” Dickie said. “Only he and his daughter, Madame de
Vallorbes. You’ll come?”

page: 218

“Oh dear, yes, I’ll come, if you’ll be good enough to prepare your ladies for
a rough‐looking customer. Don’t let me keep you. Wonder what the daughter’s
like?” he added to himself. “The mother was a bit of a baggage.”